


i'm gonna raise the stakes (i'm gonna smoke you out)

by hellstrider



Series: Seven Devils Verse [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Demons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exorcisms, Exorcist!Geralt, General demon warning, Geralt is a Disciple of Baphomet, Horror, I promise, M/M, No Smut, Priest!Jaskier, Seven Devils Verse, also to be explained, exorcist AU, just let it be what it is for now, lots of lore, sorry - Freeform, that will be explained, u will find out more as the story goes, yes he still has witcher powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: He'sneverseen anything like it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Seven Devils Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621591
Comments: 26
Kudos: 283





	i'm gonna raise the stakes (i'm gonna smoke you out)

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the start of the seven devils au!
> 
> aka where i just get to let my idiot brain run wild with catholic aesthetics dscjvhbjweioadl;
> 
> inspired by the song by florence + the machine, title from it, etc,
> 
> tumblr: thebardjaskier

He’s _never_ seen anything like it.

And there’s _nothing_ ,

Not a _single fucking thing -_

No amount of _schooling_ to teach him,

No amount of study to _guide_ him,

No kind of _warning_ to brace him,

No prayer to _armor_ him -

That could have prepared Jaskier to face the thing he stands before now.

And,

It’s _broad daylight,_

Not three in the morning like it always is in the _stories_ , in the _movies_ ,

And they’re in a little house in Naples, Italy,

A little house that overlooks the churning sea, 

And it’s _broad fucking daylight,_

And the house is full of fresh flowers,

Is all pink walls and doilies and cat litter on the wooden floorboards,

But the _cats_ \- the cats are _gone_ ,

And everything is _sunlight_ and sea air and -

“This one is going to _piss_ himself,” and the old woman’s head rolls loosely on her shoulders as her lips _twist_ and stretch _too_ wide, _too_ perfect; the smile is a dim, _perverse_ mockery of something _human_ , and as she speaks in a horrible, crackling voice, eyes rolling back in her skull, Jaskier _refuses_ to take his own from her,

Because -

_‘They will know every one of your weaknesses,’ Geralt had said, tone surprisingly gentle as he met Jaskier’s gaze across the cracking linoleum tabletop in some roadside cafe they’d found on the way to Naples; ‘some you didn’t know you had. They will know your secrets, they will know where your sore spots live, and they will dig at them, Jaskier.’_

_‘Is there no way to stop them?’ Jaskier had asked as he scribbled down everything the exorcist said - until Geralt’s huge hand had come and covered his own, and Jaskier had looked up, looked up to find those inhuman eyes_ watching _him, watching him_ close _, so intensely Jaskier had felt the stare burrow into his_ bones _,  
_

 _‘You cannot_ control _a demon, Jaskier,’ the exorcist said lowly, and Jaskier’s damn heart had lodged in his throat,_ because _-_

 _God, was he_ beautiful _,_

_With his inhuman eyes,_

_With his_ scarred _, angular face,_

_His snow-white hair,_

_And,_

_‘Isn’t that what you do? Command them?’ Jaskier asked, and Geralt’s head tilted,_

_As the exorcist said, ‘a command is just a hope given voice. Everything in exorcism is a choice, Jaskier. If they choose to ignore my command, they may suffer for it - and that is their choice. If we allow their words to get under our skin -’_

_‘I thought no demon could withstand the holy word,’  
_

_And,_

_Geralt had lifted a brow,_

_As he squeezed Jaskier’s hand before letting him go,_

_As Jaskier had gazed at him, followed the scar that ran along the edge of Geralt’s sharp, strong jaw,_

_As the exorcist had said, dry and weary, ‘it’s_ _a dangerous assumption, Jaskier, to assume every demon bows to the word of a single god,’ and,_

Jaskier _refuses_ to look away from the old woman sunk into the armchair in the center of the room, 

And everything is beautiful and _sunlit_ ,

Smells of sea air, 

Of fresh flowers,

Of rotting flesh,

Of human excrement, 

Piss and _ammonia_ ,

And there’s a _presence_ that surrounds them, a _suffocating_ , overwhelming _presence_ , one that Jaskier can feel settle in his lungs as he breathes as shallowly as he can,

As Geralt looks towards him when the demon grits out, _this one is going to piss himself,_ and,

“He won’t,” the exorcist says idly, and Geralt is sat on a stool across from the armchair, and how he can stand being so fucking close, Jaskier can’t fathom - he knows Geralt has heightened senses, has snapped at Jaskier about his damn heartbeat enough times,

Has tracked Jaskier down in restaurants and motels by his scent _alone_ ,

So _how_ the exorcist is sat _so close_ to the sore-addled, puss-leaking, half-dead possessed sunk deep in her armchair, Jaskier truly does not know,

But Geralt sits on the stool like he’s playing a game of _chess,_ like he’s considering his next move with his elbows on his knees, shoulders _entirely_ relaxed,

As Jaskier hovers several feet back, heart hammering in his throat, and Geralt’s head tilts just a fraction when it stumbles as those golden eyes sweep over him,

As the demon _chuckles_ , a sound like _bone_ being ground beneath _granite_ ,

And purrs, “his little virgin _cock_ is excited even _now_ , when you look at him,”

But,

“Well, he’s a _virgin_ ,” Geralt counters easily, inhuman eyes swiveling back to the possessed as she writhes a little in the armchair, jaw rolling and spindly fingers digging into the sweat-stained velvet, “gets excited when the car goes just a little too fast. I try not to let it get to my head.”

And,

The old woman’s floral nightgown is stained with _vomit_ and _piss_ , is grey around the throat and under her arms; Jaskier wonders what she was like _before_ this, if she was one of those sweet old grandmothers that doted on her grandchildren and fed them too much sugar before sending them back to their parents,

Wonders if there’s ever a true recovery from something like this, from being violated so _intimately_ , but -

“There _isn’t,”_

And Jaskier can barely breathe as those too-pale eyes swivel back towards him, as the old woman cracks her neck and bares her teeth again in that too big, too perfect smile,

“She will know me _forever_ , now. As _you_ will, little priestling. I will _always_ be with you.”

“That’s part of it for you, isn’t it?” Geralt says before Jaskier can fuck it all up; the demon’s gaze flickers towards him as the perfect smile cracks, “you fear being forgotten. Your sire forgot you - the devil doesn’t give half a damn about you. So you take the memories of the ones weak enough to say yes, don’t you?” and,

A _slow_ , burning, _popping_ growl starts to ripple through the walls as Geralt speaks, as the exorcist watches the demon close, and Jaskier’s stomach is between his aching lungs as a stench like ruin fills the air,

As the old woman’s nose furls and her broken, yellowed teeth flash,

As her bloodshot, too-dark eyes get a little _wild_ ,

And Geralt tangles his fingers together between his knees the demon snarls, voice like a pig’s squeal, “as _you_ would, exorcist - wouldn’t you? The priestling _reeks_ of loneliness, but _you_? Oh, _you_ \- motherless bastard, _unwanted_ from the moment you slid _screaming_ from her _worthless cunt_. You will live like a dead man until you turn to _dust_ , and you will do it _alone_. You would say _yes_ , if only to feel like you _belonged_ to someone for a _moment_ ,”

But,

“So you think you’re saving them? The ones you take?” Geralt asks calmly, and _Jaskier_ \- Jaskier can’t help the small swell of absolute _wonder_ that curls through his gut as Geralt speaks like he’s so completely _unaffected_ by all of it, 

As he speaks to the demon like one might a wounded _child_ ,

And it’s - _beyond_ bracing, if Jaskier is being honest, is beyond inspiring, because Geralt speaks like he’s _unaffected_ by the stench of sheer _wrongness_ surrounding them, by the _presence_ that threatens to _suffocate_ them, by the _foulness_ that drips from the demon’s _acrid_ tongue,

 _“S-a-a-a-a-aving_ them,” the demon moans with its triple-layered voice, and the old woman’s head rolls again as her legs stretch out, veined feet curling up tight, “giving them what they _ache_ for, what they get _wet_ for - and she _is_ , want to feel?”

And Jaskier has to look away with a _sharp_ inhale when the demon yanks the old woman’s nightgown up to reveal nothing beneath, but Geralt merely asks, “has it saved _you_? You’re festering away in an old woman’s half-dead body. You’re caked in _shit_. You think this is _any_ kind of salvation, my friend?”

 _“Friend?”_ the demon sneers, voice dripping with _ire_ ,

“I use the term _loosely_ , believe me,” and here, Geralt sounds - _bored_ , almost, and Jaskier looks around as Geralt rises from his stool, as he runs a hand over his silver hair and begins to take a slow turn about the room,

And when he reaches Jaskier, the exorcist touches his shoulder, grips it firmly, despite the fact that Jaskier’s fool heart goes _triple-time_ and the demon starts to _cackle_ , starts to _croon_ and _moan_ and _sigh_ as it rubs between its thighs,

As it says, _reedy_ and _high_ , “he wants your tongue licking up his _ass_ , exorcist, wants to get that fat cock down his _throat_ ,” and,

“ _You_ want it too, want to bury that cock in his _tight_ little backdoor cunt, want to hear him _scream_ when you fuck his tight _virgin_ ass,” but,

“You’re all _sticks_ and _stones_ and _cobwebs_ inside, nothing but a used up _shell_ \- you’ve nothing to offer a thing like _him_ , this pretty little _priestling_ ,” and,

“What _God_ would let their _child_ be touched by _you_ , exorcist? You may have washed those hands in holy water, but they’re still coated in _blood_ ,”

And,

Jaskier can’t fucking _breathe_ as Geralt slides around behind him,

As the exorcist’s _huge_ hand settles in the small of his spine,

As Geralt leans in _close_ ,

And he smells of myrrh and rosewater, of steel and vanilla, of smoke and sandalwood,

And the _presence_ is thickening all around them as the windows start to - to _fog over_ , as the demon starts to _pant_ and _salivate_ in the chair, the chair where the possessed is _rotting away,_

And when Geralt moves _close_ , Jaskier allows himself to take _solace_ in _his_ presence, despite the _shame_ and _fear_ that clogs his throat, despite the guilt and the grief, the burning, _panicked_ demand of, ‘ _will you command me from your side now, exorcist’?_

But,

“Whatever prayers you say to bring yourself comfort,” Geralt says, low and _deep_ , “say them now, Jaskier,” and,

Then he’s moving,

And Jaskier bites his cheek as Geralt picks his way back towards the old woman, panting and writhing now in the armchair,

As he shoves the stool away with a foot, opting to _loom_ over the possessed instead,

And _Geralt sounds_ \- sounds _bored_ , when he says, “the crude bullshit routine is getting old, my friend. I know you’re smarter than that. How many times have we been here before?”

“And how many times have you _failed_?” the demon growls, voice clicking like a raven’s as it pours over prey, “how many times have you guessed my name _wrong_ , exorcist? How many more _corpses_ will you force me to leave behind? Perhaps I’ll take the _priestling_ , next. Would you allow your _failure_ then?”

“You _want_ to be known,” Geralt says loudly, _roughly_ , voice full of the _command_ Jaskier’s been _waiting_ for, and it - it _does_ something to him, to _hear_ it, to bear witness to the full brunt of the _gift_ buried inside Geralt’s blessed bones, and _Jaskier_ -

Jaskier doesn’t know if he’s _ever_ felt a faith like this,

As Geralt leans close to the demon,

As he burrs, _“tell me,_ demon. Tell me the _truth_. You wish to be _known_ , don’t you?”

And the demon’s nose _furls_ ,

As Geralt _looms_ over it,

The thing packed inside a _rotting body_ grafted to the armchair in the middle of a doily-strewn living room,

As Geralt commands harshly, _all_ semblance of compassion _stripped_ from his deep, guttural voice, “tell me the _truth_ ,” and,

“ _Yes_ ,” the demon hisses between grated teeth, “ _yes_ , you _cocksucking_ , ass-licking -”

“The _name_ ,”

 _“Unwanted,_ orphaned, foul, _murdering_ little -”

“Your _name_ , demon,”

And it’s _here_ ,

That Geralt produces his ruby-red rosary,

And it’s _here_ ,

That the demon starts to show its _true_ nature,

As Geralt wraps the rosary idly around one hand,

As he _armors_ his knuckles with it, his fingers,

And Jaskier can’t find a _single_ prayer to utter,

But when Geralt _speaks_ , speaks with the _full brunt_ of the _gift_ the Equalizer has bestowed upon him, Jaskier _feels_ one move across the surface of the thing he’s supposed to consider a soul, _and_ ,

A horrible, _grating_ snarl ripples through the walls,

Through the _floors_ ,

As the windows fog until they’re going _grey_ , 

As the stench of decay floods the room,

As the _presence_ becomes so fucking heavy Jaskier doesn’t think he’ll ever quite be able to shake it _off,_

And the demon’s pale eyes lift to Geralt when the exorcist reaches out with his rosary-armored hand, _defiance_ carved in every line of the old woman’s countenance,

But there’s also _fear_ ,

A fear Jaskier can feel _mirrored_ in his own soul,

But Geralt stands between him and the beast rotting in the chair,

And while the demon may have a _mighty_ presence, a thing Jaskier doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to shake off,

_So does Geralt._

And,

Jaskier thinks he ought to be uttering a _prayer_ ,

Thinks he ought to think of _Christ_ or the Holy Virgin,

Perhaps of _God_ ,

But _suddenly_ ,

As the windows fog and the _devil_ comes to walk beside him,

 _All_ Jaskier can _see_ is _Geralt of fucking Rivia,_

Disciple of _Baphomet_ ,

 _Hand_ of the Great Equalizer,

And the _demon_ has a _presence_ , but _Geralt’s_ -

 _Jesus_ , it’s like -

It’s like _basking_ in the light of _a thousand suns,_

And the _only_ holy Jaskier knows - perhaps the only _real_ holy he’s _ever fucking_ _known_ in his twenty-four years of living - becomes the way Geralt’s gift comes through his _voice_ when the exorcist commands, _one last time_ , for -

“Your _name_ , demon,” 

And,

Jaskier thinks his fucking _teeth_ are about to _fall out of his skull_ as the windows begin to _rattle_ , as the walls _heave_ , as a small earthquake is borne from the epicenter of the armchair where the possessed _rots_ ,

And then Geralt’s fingertips light on the old woman’s white brow,

And a sound unlike _anything_ Jaskier has ever heard unfurls from her splitting lips as her jaw _unhinges_ itself and her maw _drops_ open,

And; _this is what Hell sounds like,_ Jaskier thinks, as he presses against the shaking wall and fights with _every last ounce_ of strength in his bones not to _run_ to Geralt,

As the symphony of _Hell_ crashes through the house, the house full of doilies, with its pink walls and the cat litter on the floor, the house right beside the sea,

A symphony of wild, _wrenching_ shrieks not unlike a hyena’s, 

Of screams so wrought with _agony_ Jaskier’s tasting _tears_ , and,

It’s a symphony of _howls_ and _roars_ , of wordless pleas and absolutely _devastating_ sobs, of _every human pain_ that’s _ever_ been felt, both across Heaven and across Hell, 

Across the _entirety_ of the _world_ , a world as _cruel_ and _unforgiving_ as Jaskier _knows_ it to be,

But standing _between_ Jaskier and the _physical manifestation_ of _Hell_ is -

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier murmurs, and the name rolls from his tongue in place of a prayer, falls _so_ naturally from his lips, 

And he’s tasting _tears_ like _holywine_ as he utters the exorcist’s name,

As Geralt stands like a damn _fortress_ between Jaskier and the physical manifestation of _Hell_ he keeps bound to the chair by a _single fucking hand_ , a hand armored with a _ruby-red rosary,_

And,

_Finally,_

As Jaskier tastes _holywine_ and his bones go _gold_ with a _faith_ he’s never felt before _this fucking moment,_

The old woman’s throat _undulates_ as if it’s _coming apart_ , and -

 _“A-a-a-a-a-amo-o-o-on,”_ comes grinding out of the possessed’s open mouth as Geralt keeps his fingertips glued to her brow, as the windows heave and rattle until they’re shattering, and Jaskier recoils as glass goes flying, as wind _whips_ through the room in a wide, _vicious_ tornado,

As Geralt says, sounding about as fed up as a man facing down a shit-caked demon might, “get the _fuck_ out of her, Aamon,” _and_ ,

It comes with the full force of the gift the Great Equalizer has bestowed upon the exorcist,

And the demon - _Aamon, Jaskier thinks wildly, Marquis of Hell_ \- gives a horrible _howl_ , a sound like a half-digested pig screaming out from inside a wolf’s belly, 

As Geralt keeps his hand _steady_ on the woman’s brow,

As shattered glass whirls in an _inferno_ around him,

And Jaskier presses back to the wall as everything goes so _dark_ he thinks they’ve plummeted into the pit, gotten sucked down into Hell when Geralt forced the demon from its unwilling host, 

But before he can _panic_ properly, before he can even form Geralt’s name as a _thought_ in his addled mind,

There are _hands_ on him,

And,

The darkness is gone as quickly as it came,

And everything is suddenly _silent_ , so silent Jaskier’s ears _ring_ with it, 

As he takes in the ruined house with its pink walls and fresh flowers,

With its cat litter and glass-strewn floor,

And the old woman on the armchair is either dead or out cold, Jaskier can’t quite tell,

But _Geralt -_

Geralt is _right_ ,

Right _there_ ,

And the exorcist’s hands come up to cup Jaskier’s face as Geralt burrs, concern leaking through his voice, “are you hurt?” _but_ ,

All he can _hear_ for a moment is -

_His little virgin cock is excited,_

And,

_He wants that tongue licking up his -_

And,

Geralt can _hear_ his _heartbeat_ ,

Must be able to - to _smell_ the _shame_ ,

The _fear_ ,

The _adoration_ and the _devotion_ , 

_All_ in equal measure,

But his gaze is nothing but _soft_ as it sweeps over Jaskier’s face, as he thumbs over the priest’s cheekbones, as his nostrils flare as if he’s scenting for any trace of a _hidden wound,_

“Not,” Jaskier croaks, “ _physically_ ,”

Which,

Gets Geralt to _smile_ ,

 _Truly_ smile,

Enough that his sharpened canines _flash_ ,

And Jaskier’s trampled, _fool_ heart stumbles over itself as the exorcist grips his arms to haul him up to his feet,

“The woman -”

“A medic unit is en route. We’ve done all we can do,”

“Then it’s -”

“Time to go, priest,”

“ _Right_ ,”

So,

They leave the little house on the shore in Naples, Italy,

And it’s not until they’re in the car _that it all -_

It all,

 _Crashes_ into Jaskier,

_All at once,_

And Jaskier -

He must be going into _shock_ , he thinks,

Because between _one_ heartbeat and the _next_ ,

They’re in Naples and it’s _daylight_ ,

And then Jaskier fucking _blinks_ and they’re approaching Florence as the sun sets; they end up at some little hotel just outside the city, built of pale stucco and covered in vines,

And he must be going into shock, Jaskier thinks,

Because between one breath and the next,

He’s in the car,

And then Geralt is herding him into a room on the third floor, and _Jaskier_ -

Jaskier must be going into _shock_ ,

Because he _can’t feel his fingertips,_

And Geralt has to be able to hear his heartbeat,

Must be getting _sick_ of it, by now,

But he hasn’t said anything, yet,

Not like he usually does,

And Jaskier wonders if that’s just _pity_ ,

And he wonders about - about all the _things_ the demon said, the things that _weren’t_ foul _before_ they were spoken by that _acrid_ tongue, forced to become something that Jaskier knows he should _never_ feel shame for but _does_ ,

So,

“Geralt,” 

“Hm?”

And Jaskier’s sat on the end of one of the stiff, starchy beds,

As Geralt sets their bags on a table in the corner and moves to the small fridge in the room to dig for two bottles of shitty whiskey, 

And,

“What that - that _thing_ \- what it _said_ ,”

 _“Jaskier_ -”

“I don’t - want to make this - _look_ , I’m -”

“Jaskier, you’re _shaking_ ,”

And,

Jaskier _must_ be going into shock,

Because when Geralt crouches down in front of him and takes his hands,

The priest doesn’t _pull away_ , 

Doesn’t - doesn’t know if he _could_ , actually,

Because Geralt’s hands are big and _warm_ , and until they’re curling around his own, Jaskier doesn’t realize -

“You’re _freezing_ ,” 

“Guess facing demons will do that to a man,”

“Jaskier,”

A beat - then;

“Is it,” and Jaskier swallows hard as Geralt lifts those golden eyes up to meet his own, “is it _always_ like that?”

And he almost doesn’t recognize his own voice it’s so damn _small_ \- Geralt’s brow furrows then, and the exorcist runs his thumbs over the priest’s knuckles as Jaskier tries not to picture the woman’s face, tries desperately not to think of the way the thing had sounded when it _laughed_ ,

Of that warped, horrible smile,

But,

“Yes,” Geralt murmurs, “it is. It never gets easier. You just get stronger.”

“That’s not _nearly_ as comforting as you think it is.”

“I never said it was _comforting_ , priest.”

“I _hate_ it when you call me that.”

“Do you hate that collar?”

“No,” Jaskier says quietly, “but there’s a _whole man_ under it, you know.”

And Geralt’s expression _softens_ , then,

As his lips curve and his gaze flickers over Jaskier’s face, 

As he says, quietly, “I know, Jaskier,” and,

It sounds like,

_I see you,_

Which has Jaskier’s throat going _tight_ under his white collar,

And Jaskier feels like he’s been _stripped_ of his _skin_ , a little,

As he holds _tight_ to Geralt’s hands and tries to exhale the _stench_ still clinging under his nose, as he tries to still his own trembling to _no avail_ , and a - a goddamn tear cuts down his cheek as it _all_ digs through him at _once_ , 

And _he doesn’t_ \- they don’t even know if she _lived_ , after all of that, _do they_?

“Fuck,” Jaskier mutters viciously, letting go of Geralt’s hand to swipe at his face with a quivering palm, “this is -”

“I know. You see why I tried to scare you off?”

“Well -” and Jaskier’s jaw aches when he grits his teeth, and his heart’s lodged up in his throat as he meets Geralt’s gaze, burdened and so fucking bright, and _Geralt -_

Geralt’s been doing this all _alone,_

For _God only knows_ how long,

And Jaskier is tracing the scar along Geralt’s jaw with careful fingertips before he can _stop_ himself,

Before he can think _twice_ about it,

And he’s saying, “I’m not _leaving_ ,” with a fierceness he can’t quite _feel_ as Geralt’s brow knits tight, as the exorcist’s chest rises and falls with a soft sigh, and Jaskier’s resolve only _hardens_ when Geralt reaches up to cup his cheek,

“I’m _not_ leaving,”

“Alright,”

“If a _demon_ doesn’t sway me,”

“ _I_ surely won’t,”

“ _No_ , you _won’t_ ,”

“If it’s the _truth_ of heaven and hell you _want_ , Jaskier -”

“Then we’ll _find_ it, Geralt, won’t we?” and,

There’s a soft moment of silence, 

Before Geralt reaches into his jacket,

And then he’s pulling out the - the _rosary,_

The ruby-red rosary he’d had wrapped around his hand the day Jaskier found him all alone at the edge of Romania,

The ruby-red rosary he’d armored his knuckles with before beating a demon into submission not _six hours ago,_

And,

Jaskier’s fool heart and his aching lungs are battling for space in his throat when Geralt - 

When he presses the rosary into his palms,

When the exorcist closes Jaskier’s hands around the glittering beads, 

When he ghosts his lips right over Jaskier’s folded knuckles, _and_ ,

“Then you’re going to learn,” Geralt says then, tone brooking no argument, and Jaskier’s heart thunders at the back of his mouth when the exorcist lifts those golden eyes, steely with his resolve; “the demon spoke the truth, Jaskier. No amount of holy water will wash the blood from my hands - I won’t have yours joining the rest.”

“You’re going to - _teach me?”_

“As well as I can,”

“Then you’ll - let me stay? With you?”

And something strange passes over Geralt’s face, then,

As he holds Jaskier’s hands shut around the rosary,

As his nostrils flare and his jaw ticks,

And Jaskier itches to chase the flutter of his muscle with a fingertip, before -

“The demon spoke the _truth_ , Jaskier,” the exorcist murmurs meaningfully then, as those golden eyes lift like the sunrise,

As Jaskier’s heart and lungs battle it out for space in his throat,

As he clutches the rosary in his thawing hands,

As the room floods with _sacred_ , cleansing moonlight,

And,

Before he can _stop himself_ , before he can convince himself to be a _coward_ ,

Jaskier slides down from the end of the stiff, starchy motel bed,

Sinks down to his knees where Geralt kneels on the floor,

And he wraps the ruby-red rosary around one hand, 

Curls the other around the collar of Geralt’s road-bruised leather jacket,

And words don’t often _fail_ Jaskier,

But _here,_

Now,

He doesn’t think there are _any_ words that could _serve_ him, 

So all he can _do_ ,

Is curl his arm around Geralt’s neck, slow and _careful_ ,

And _all_ he can _do_ is tuck his chin into the juncture of the exorcist’s neck as he tangles his rosary-armored fingers through Geralt’s silver hair,

And _all_ he can do is try and _breathe_ through his heart-packed throat as Geralt’s scarred palms curve around his waist, 

As Geralt’s chest rises and falls just this side of _too quick_ under his knuckles, _and_ ,

Moonlight dawns in silver rays through the window of their motel room on the third floor,

As Jaskier tucks his face against Geralt’s pulse, where it smells the thickest of _myrrh_ , of _vanilla_ , of _steel_ and _clove_ ,

As the exorcist slides his arms around the priest’s slender waist, as Geralt pulls Jaskier in as _close_ as he _possibly can,_

And,

No amount of _prayer_ could have armored him against the _beast_ living in the house with pink walls and fresh flowers and cat litter-strewn floorboards in Naples, Italy,

But that’s _alright_ , Jaskier thinks, as his rosary-wrapped hand tightens in Geralt’s hair, as their heartbeats somehow begin to beat in _rhythm_ ,

Because he’d had something _far_ fiercer than _faith_ standing between him and the gates of Hell,

_Hadn’t he?_

**Author's Note:**

> songs:  
> seven devils - florence + the machine  
> fear inoculum - tool  
> lost my mind - alison wonderland + dillon francis


End file.
